Under the Gun
by callensensei
Summary: Oneshot missing scene from The Hunter. When the old Wolf of Wall Street's under the gun, he's got nerves of iron and the cunning of the Devil himself.


**Disclaimer: **Gilligan's Island and its characters belong to Sherwood Schwartz.

**Warning:** Implied adult themes. Only implied, though. Mr. Howell is the star of the story, and he wouldn't stand for anything in bad taste.

**Acknowledgement:** Many thanks to Little Soprano for another perceptive beta-read, and for great patience as draft after draft emerged!

**Under the Gun**

_The jackal may follow the tiger,_

_But cub, when thy whiskers are grown_

_Remember, the wolf is a hunter—_

_Go forth and get food of thine own._

_Rudyard Kipling, "The Law of the Jungle"_

"You don't seem to understand. I'm not interested in money." Jonathan Kinkaid said it as though it were a thing to be proud of.

_Filths savour but themselves,_ thought Thurston Howell the Third. But all he said was, "You _are_ sick," and with a last look at Gilligan's despairing face he slipped out the door. Sick at heart himself, he dreaded his reception at the cave where Kinkaid had ordered them all to spend the night. How on earth was he going to tell the others of his failure? Mr. Howell sighed deeply. At least he would be able to tell them that for now, Gilligan was unharmed.

He was halfway across the deserted campsite when he heard the screams.

Mr. Howell froze for one heart-stopping moment. It was not _his_ name that Gilligan had screamed, but it didn't matter. Without the time for the luxury and liability of thought, he turned and dashed back to the hut.

Once inside, the first thing he saw in the flickering candlelight was Gilligan crouching by the far end of the table, teeth bared like an animal. His eyes were wild. _"No! Don't touch me again! Do you hear me?"_

Ramoo stood only four feet from Gilligan, hands outstretched to grab his captive and pull him back onto the table. Kinkaid, meanwhile, had his rifle trained on Gilligan. He swung his aim on Mr. Howell for a moment as the millionaire burst in, then aimed back at the wild-eyed first mate.

Ramoo pointed to the table-top. "Back up here," he ordered.

_"No!_" Gilligan looked like he was going to bolt, attack Ramoo or both. _I don't care what Kinkaid does!"_

Kinkaid's voice was calm, but his eyes were dark. "Stop it, Gilligan."

_"You're not gonna do that to me!"_

Ramoo lunged forwards but Gilligan skittered back, knocking over a chair. A muscle in Kinkaid's jaw twitched; his hands tightened on the rifle. "Gilligan, I'm not going to tell you again."

Mr. Howell's insides shook like jellied caviar, but outside he was as smooth as a silken ascot. "Let me handle this, Kinkaid," he murmured in tones that had soothed panicking stockholders and frantic brokers. Without waiting for the hunter's approval he strode over to stand beside Gilligan, positioning himself between his young friend and Ramoo. As his protective hands slid over Gilligan's shoulders, Mr. Howell could feel the terrible panic in the first mate's trembling form, like a bird beating its wings madly against a cage. Somehow the millionaire fought down his own fear and fury. "It's all right, Gilligan, my boy," he said gently. "No one's going to harm you."

"Where's the Skipper?" Gilligan's voice was ragged.

"The Skipper can't be with you now, son. Our gallant sportsman here threatened the ladies if he tried." Mr. Howell spared the hunter a contemptuous glance before turning back to Gilligan. He looked into the young man's tormented blue eyes with great compassion. "But I wasn't included in that proscription, and now that I'm here, by George, I shan't leave you. You have the word of a Howell." The older man's hands lay upon Gilligan's shoulders like a suit of armour, and the beating of those frantic wings slowly stilled.

Now that order had been restored, Kinkaid sat down, lowered the rifle and turned to his servant. "Ramoo - what happened?"

The Malay looked nervous and caught off guard. He spread his hands abjectly. "Nothing, Boss. I swear!"

"Then what's he so upset about?"

"Don't know, Boss!"

Kinkaid looked at him for a moment, puzzled. Then he shrugged, any hint of suspicion gone.

Mr. Howell's own suspicion turned his stomach. He realized that the jackal's appetite, in its own way, was every bit as remorseless as the tiger's and Gilligan was nothing more than a lamb to be torn between them. The darkness of the jungle was broad daylight compared with the darkness in this little hut.

Nevertheless, despite his revulsion and horror, Mr. Howell had not missed the fleeting glint of mistrust in Kinkaid's eyes, that glimpse behind the poker face. There, if anywhere, lay the key. In the jungle brute force held sway, but in a poker game it was brains that ruled. The man who could build a strong hand coolly and cleverly, while tricking his opponents into tipping theirs, would be the victor. If Mr. Howell could shift the playing field from the jungle to the club, he stood a chance. He remembered his Harvard alumni around the rosewood card table, chuckling amid the gleam of cut crystal and the smoke of fine cigars. _Watch out, fellows! When the old Wolf of Wall Street's under the gun, he's got nerves of iron and the cunning of the Devil himself!_

"Your man is quite the skilled masseur," murmured the millionaire, glancing towards the table-top with the thin mattress Kinkaid had placed there. "I wonder where he picked it up? The steam room of the Athletic Club, perhaps?" He infused his voice with all the patrician scorn he could muster. "Or some less reputable establishment in the back alleys of Kuala Lumpur?"

"Ramoo from Malacca," said Ramoo, frowning.

Mr. Howell ignored him as he would a little reptile on the wall. "Kinkaid – just how well do you know him?"

Kinkaid smiled. "Ramoo's been with me for years. We've hunted big game on five continents. Dangerous game."

"And this is a dangerous game you're playing, old man. He knows all about your penchant for hunting humans now. Do you think you can trust him to keep your little secret once you get back to the mainland?"

The smile that curved Kinkaid's handsome features could have frozen the tropical night. "Oh, I think so."

_Smiling, damned villain_! Mr. Howell flung his smug smile right back at him. "I hope so, old chap. You've committed threat, forcible confinement and conspiracy to commit murder in the first degree, and he's the chief witness. I certainly shouldn't like it if one of my underlings held cards like that against me: especially when they could send me to the electric chair."

That sent a spark of fear flaring in Kinkaid's eyes, but only for a moment. "I doubt his testimony would go for much. And he'd need proof...which he might not have." That cold smile returned. "But I assure you, Ramoo has no moral qualms about tomorrow's proceedings. You have no moral qualms about anything, have you, Ramoo?" The hunter laughed.

The wrinkles crinkled about Ramoo's eyes as he laughed too. He leered at Gilligan. "No sir, Boss!"

As their laughter rang like the howls of jungle predators, the Wolf of Wall Street growled softly in his throat. He had lost the first round, but he could not afford to lose the next. The stakes were far too high.

His chuckles fading, Kinkaid hefted his rifle slightly. "And now I'll wish you good night, Howell. Ramoo and I will handle things from here. And Gilligan--" he fixed his quarry with a cold gaze, "—no more outbursts. Think of your friends."

Gilligan gasped and sagged a little, even as Mr. Howell's fingers tightened on his shoulders.

"You go bed, boss," Ramoo suggested. "Ramoo stay here. Guard boy." His eye suddenly lit and he pointed at Mr. Howell. "You sleep rich man's bed!"

"Why not?" chuckled Kinkaid, obviously finding the idea terribly amusing. "I've a big day tomorrow. Want to be well rested for the chase – and the kill." His white teeth gleamed. "I suppose the Howell hut is the pick of the local accommodation – such as it is."

"You go, Boss. Have long sleep. No worry." Ramoo pointed to the table-top and flashed Gilligan a crooked grin that Kinkaid did not see. "Ramoo finish job. Get him ready. Him no fight this time."

"Good." Kinkaid gestured towards the door with his rifle. "Good night, Howell."

The first mate made a low sound like a dying animal, and Mr. Howell knew it was only the pressure of his own hands that kept Gilligan from sinking altogether. What Mr. Howell truly wanted to do with those hands - those manicured hands that could manipulate a deck of cards like a magician and shoot a perfect game of billiards - was strangle Ramoo slowly, and Kinkaid afterwards. As it was, Mr. Howell took a deep breath, stood his ground, and played his first card with a flourish.

"Being packed off to beddie-bye, are we, Kinkaid? Would you like the loan of my teddy bear? By Jove, your naivete deserves it!"

As Kinkaid's mouth popped open in astonishment, Mr. Howell cut him off. "Well, open your eyes, man! Do you want your sport or don't you?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"It's terribly simple; Heavens, even a Yale man could see it! If your quarry comes to harm tonight, you won't have much to look forward to tomorrow, will you?"

Kinkaid's eyes glittered. "You've nerve, Howell. I don't intend to harm him tonight, but the same doesn't go for you."

Mr. Howell let the threat glance off of him and rolled his eyes as though he were talking to a man who didn't know his oyster fork from his shrimp fork. "Pshah, Kinkaid! Of course _you_ don't intend to harm Gilligan, but what about your man? Though I daresay Webster might quibble with the use of the term." Mr. Howell jerked his head at the scowling Ramoo. "As you put it yourself, he has no moral qualms about anything!"

Kinkaid stared at Mr. Howell for a moment as though Mr. Howell were mad, then shook his head and began to laugh even louder than before. "I don't believe it! I have to hand it to you, Howell! You can bluff with the best of them!" After a moment he quieted, and the dangerous smile returned. "But I call your bluff. I'll admit I've never pried into my man's...how shall I put it...personal tastes? But Ramoo would never dare to harm my quarry without my permission."

Mr. Howell played his second card, and the Knave could not have been a better fit. "He jolly well dared just a moment ago, Kinkaid, right under your very nose! What mightn't he dare while you're somewhere else asleep – and the boy's at his mercy?"

Gilligan shuddered violently and another low moan escaped his lips. The millionaire held onto him, loathing the fact that he must speak the words, but unable to spare Gilligan's feelings now. The one man who could protect the boy was the man who intended to kill him.

And so, ruthlessly, he threw down the Queen. "Your man knows very well what set the boy off just now, and he dared to lie to your face about it! And when the boy daren't even cry out - because you've silenced him with your vile threats – what then?"

As Mr. Howell had hoped, Ramoo finally lost his nerve and tipped his hand. His guilt and fear was plain in his face.

And Kinkaid saw it. That glint of doubt flared up into a gleam.

Down went the King. "And you were going to play right into his hands."

The hunter's icy eyes grew ten degrees colder. "Ramoo... just what did happen a moment ago? Or will I ask Gilligan?"

Ramoo shivered in that gaze. "It...it was...just accident, Boss!"

Kinkaid's eyebrows leapt. Slowly he rose to his feet, his voice as sharp as the Malay's spear. "_What _was?"

The Ace. "And he thinks he won't get another chance after tomorrow, Kinkaid. Can you really afford to trust him tonight?"

For a moment there was absolute silence in the little hut. Shadows from the candles and lantern wavered on the palm-frond walls as the hunter's terrible gaze seemed to freeze Ramoo where he stood. Mr. Howell felt that his fingers must have left an imprint in Gilligan's flesh by now, but he still did not let go.

At last Kinkaid broke his stare with a brief, dismissive snort and sat back down. "You're bluffing, Howell. Of course it was an accident."

Ramoo breathed a great sigh of relief.

But Mr. Howell saw that the glint had not died. It was the tiger who was bluffing now: still needing his jackal and scrounging for a bone to save face with. The Wolf of Wall Street threw it to him. "Be that as it may, Kinkaid. But it's plain that this boy's on edge as it is, and who could blame him? If you haul him up there again you'll have a screaming sailor on your hands, and he might bring everyone running. And then who knows what might happen?" It was true. Howell shuddered at the thought.

Kinkaid raised an eyebrow. "You've got a point. I doubt we'll get him to relax much anyhow. Ramoo – " and his quiet voice was dark with menace, "leave him alone."

Ramoo nodded humbly, and Mr. Howell felt Gilligan sag against him in a half-faint of relief.

Mr. Howell pressed on. "Kinkaid, let the boy spend the night with his friends. That way—"

"That way you can hide him. No, Howell. He stays here."

The light of hope in Gilligan's eyes died as quickly as it was born. Mr. Howell sighed deeply, then squared his shoulders. Though he knew that Lovey would be terribly worried, he had no doubt of what his wife would want him to do. "Then permit me to stay here tonight with him. I'm sure that he'd be much more at ease if I did. Less prone to panic."

Kinkaid shook his head. "No, Howell. You've more than outstayed your welcome. Remind the Skipper when you see him in the cave: everyone's to be there at dawn. And I mean everyone. And if anyone else comes here tonight, I'll be here, with Ramoo standing guard...outside."

At least there was victory of a kind. Gilligan reached up and touched the millionaire's hand. "Mr. Howell, y-you'd better go."

Mr. Howell looked at him searchingly. "Are you sure, my boy?"

"Yeah." The first mate still looked drawn with terror, but at least not with the same terror that had nearly crushed him a few moments before. "You've been gone so long, Mrs. Howell and the others are gonna worry. Go back and tell them I'm okay..." He paused and swallowed. "Well...f-for tonight, I mean."

"Gilligan, I—" Mr. Howell began.

But Gilligan pressed on, fighting to get the words past the rising tide of his grief. "Tell the Skipper I know why he couldn't come. I-I know he would have. But don't let him or anybody else try anything crazy, Mr. Howell! I couldn't stand it if anybody got hurt because of me!"

Thurston Howell the Third clutched his young friend's hand. "I'd have paid a king's ransom for you, son. You're worth every penny. May God go with you."

Gilligan nodded, his eyes saying all the things he could not speak. Kinkaid gestured at Ramoo, and the Malay picked up his spear and walked out of the hut.

"Pleasant dreams, Howell," murmured Kinkaid.

Mr. Howell ignored him. He paused in the open doorway to look back at Gilligan, who looked very small and alone in the flickering candlelight. The millionaire was unused to praying, but he prayed now. He summoned up a reassuring smile.

"Until we meet again, my boy."


End file.
